


Simply a Kiss Goodnight

by Midnigtartist



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Cute, Dimension Cannon, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, They're both assholes, but feelings, pinning, whatever the hell they do in monticello
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnigtartist/pseuds/Midnigtartist
Summary: Of course the meeting had to be in Virginia and of course it had to be at Jefferson estate, but what makes it worst is Washington forcing him to stay another night. Alone. With Thomas. In Monticello...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this immediately after I finished WTPB cause I have absolutely no chill when it comes to these two. Loosely inspired by Just a Kiss- By Lady Antebellum. Very cute, super sticky sweet, I think you're gonna like. Thanks to Clebimebi for beta reading this one as well.

“You’re sure that I can’t convince you to stay, Jemmy?” Jefferson asks earnestly. He hovers in the entryway while Madison dons his heavy outer coat. 

Madison in turn shakes his head. “It’s late, Thomas, and I must be heading out soon if I’m to make it home before tomorrow.”

“I could have a bed made up for you, it would hardly take ten minutes, and you could leave in the morning when the roads are lit.” the taller man presses, following only two steps behind Madison as he makes his way to the door. 

He pauses with a hand on the knob, turning to face Jefferson once more. “I really must be getting back to my wife Thomas, she worries. Besides, I wouldn’t want to further impose upon you while you have other  _ guests  _ to attend to.” he shoots a glare over Jefferson shoulder. 

Alexander rolls his eyes, leaning against the banister of the grand staircase as he watches the event before him unfold. Damn Virginians, summoning him here, to Jefferson’s estate for a meeting when there are perfectly good venues in New York. And to think that Washington approved it.  Bless his southern soul, but Hamilton doesn’t think he’ll ever understand what he means when he talks in length about the beauty of the endless sky over the fields. The damn sky hadn’t help them to reach a compromise any easier than before. No, in fact, the weekend’s stay in Monticello had only set Alexander more on edge. The countryside is suffocating, especially at night. Without the constant droning buzz of bustling streets, the silence is only broken by the occasional tenor of a bullfrog outside his window. The isolation from civilization makes Hamilton uneasy, he hates the quiet. And what’s worse, is that he has to spend yet another night in this lavished penitentiary. Discussion had gone on late into the day, and while other such a Madison and Washington live close enough to return to their sprawling estates by early morning, it’s at least a three days ride back up to New York and the closest inn is a day's journey away. Therefore, Washington had such suggested, more so he commanded, that Alexander stay another night here in Monticello, and head out in the morning when it’s safer. That’s how Hamilton found himself the disgruntled guest of Thomas Jefferson. Everyone else having left earlier and Madison on his way out now means that Jefferson won’t have anyone else to attend to, it’ll just be him and Hamilton. His expression sours at the the thought. 

Jefferson sighs. “I see there’s no changing your mind.” he claps a hand to Madison’s shoulder, then pulls the man in for a hug. “Write soon and write often, my dear friend.” 

Madison pats his back stiffly. “Of course Thomas.” they part.  “I’ll see you at the month's end. Good luck with your harvest.” 

“A pleasant evening to you, Mr Madison.” Hamilton calls, waving a hand cheerfully in farewell. 

Madison glowers at him. “Hamilton.” He drawls. “I pray you contract something horrid and expire quickly.”

“And I hope your carriage flips over in a ditch on your way home.” he smiles wickedly. “It’s always so nice to see you, old friend.” 

Madison huffs, shoots Jefferson a pitying look, then pushes his way out into the fading light of the evening. Once he’s gone, Jefferson spins on his heel to face Hamilton, who’s grinning. 

“Such a delight, that Madison.” Alexander comments, folding his arms over his front. 

The taller man glowers down at him. “If it weren’t for you he might have stayed, but it’s seems the prideful scent you exude is even to much for him.”

Annoyed by the comment (because who is Jefferson to call him prideful when his own ego sucks the air from a room), Alexander rolls his eyes. “I doubt there is a force on this earth that would make him stay, my dear Jefferson. I’m not sure how he has the patience to tolerate you. Perhaps it’s pity, or rather he just enjoys playing the mother hen, seeing as you lack the competence to care for yourself.”

“Imagine that,” Jefferson sneers, advancing on him. “Alexander Hamilton, Washington’s walking mess,  saying I’m the one who can’t care for themselves. Don’t try to remove the speck from your neighbour's eye till you remove the plank from your own, you cocky little shit.” he stops a foot or two in front of Hamilton, lips pulled up in an exasperated sneer. Still, despite the way he towers over Alexander, he appears drained from the day's discussion. He shakes his head. “God, why did I even invite you to stay?”

“Because Washington, quite literally, demanded it of you.” Alexander chirps. He loves winding Jefferson up, it’s quite an amusing pastime and always produces hilarious results. 

Jefferson hums in agreement, a rarity. “Yes, and I suppose I couldn’t allow your coachman to suffer through a sleepless night, that would just be cruel.” he brushes past Hamilton with a smirk, turning down a long hall that leads deeper into the house.

Alexander gapes for a moment before gathering his wits and charging angrily after the man. “You pity my driver, but where is your concern for me! Don’t you care that I would have had to sleep in my carriage?” he shouts, forcing himself to keep pace with Jefferson’s long strides.

The Virginian pointedly does not look his way. “Actually, I find the thought of you cramped up and sleepless on the bench of your coach far too entertaining, however, as you said, the president has demanded you stay.”

The hall empties out into the grand parlor, with its domed ceiling and its multitude of windows. The oppressive dark of the Virginian night is starting to press against the glass as dusk quickly melts into evening, there isn’t a speck of light to be seen across the rolling fields. An endless sea of shifting shadows and inky blackness with no reprieve to be found. Alexander won’t admit that the sheerness of the looming darkness makes him uneasy, but he is mindful to avoid the large windows. God, how could anyone live out here, so far from people and noise and distractions? Jefferson seems to love it, he spends half his time complaining that he’s not here, and the other half is spent reminiscing about France. Hamilton cosigns the other man’s infatuation with total solitude as another mystery he’ll never understand about the him.

“You want a nightcap before you head off to your room?” Jefferson asks, pulling Hamilton’s attention away from the grand windows. The Virginian is busying himself with removing some glasses from a liquor cabinet. He glances over at Alexander with a raised brow.

Alexander scoffs. “Why Jefferson, how hospitable of you.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, filling up two glasses, though he’s not really given a proper response. “Call it my Southern Charm.” He crosses to Hamilton and presses a scotch glass into his hands. 

“The former I can understand, but I fail to see where charm plays in.” the corners of Alexander’s mouth pull up in  a smirk as the man glowers at him.

He’s lying, obviously. Jefferson exudes charm, everything about him boast elegance and well breeding. The way his hair, impossible and tightly curled, falls around his face, the slight sway to his hips as he walks and the cut of his jaw are points of irritation, if not simply distraction for Hamilton. It’s just his luck that his swaying attractions would happen to fall on such an insufferable man. He does get a sense of wicked glee in think of Jefferson as more so beautiful than handsome, the word connotes the more gentle air of a meek maiden then a fierce political opposition. Regardless, he’s easy on the eyes and  very good with his words. Alexander is almost inclined to think he’s as good as him, but that would be giving the Secretary far more more credit than he deserves. 

Hamilton shakes the irrelevant train of thought from his mind, occupying himself with his whiskey instead. It's a hard taste for sure, but nothing Alexander can’t handle. It’s much better than the watered down beer he’d had during the war. 

“Since I have you here, I feel it’s as good a time as any to discuss my debt pla-” he starts, but immediately he’s cut off by Jefferson rude, exaggerated sigh.

“I’m quite sick and tired of politics today.” he moans, sinking down onto the room’s only sofa. “I can’t bring myself to discuss them anymore.”

“Then what  _ would  _ you like to talk about?” Hamilton snaps.

The other man simply leans his head against the sofa’s back, waving his glass dismissively. “Something else, anything else. Just, no politics, no deals, no plans, no declarations. I won’t talk about them tonight.”

Huffing through his nose, Alexander claims a spot at the other end of the couch. “Philosophy then. What are your interpretations of Hobbes’ view on the morality of man?” he asks brightly.

Jefferson raises his head to stare incredulously at Hamilton. “There’s no such thing as light conversation with you, is there?”

Alexander adjusts his waistcoat. “I fear anything so base as trivial pleasantries is a waste of my time.”

“Which explains why no one likes you.” Jefferson interjects. “You’re utterly tactless”

“Excuse me!” Alexander splutters.

Jefferson simply shrugs and takes a long swing from his glass. “Old money mistakes your relentless personality as arrogance. They think you’re a yammying maniac who’s in no position to govern our nation.”

Hamilton wants to be mad, but something in the way Jefferson relays this information catches his attention. “But not you?” he asks

The other man seems to start. “What?”

“You said ‘they’, implying that you don’t share in these beliefs.” Alexander points out. When Jefferson doesn’t respond an impish smirk makes its way onto his feature. “Why, if didn’t know any better, I’d say that was almost a compliment, mister Secretary.” he sips his drink

“You're delirious with fatigue I see.” Jefferson snaps. “I know for a fact that you’ve not slept the whole time you’ve been here.”

Hamilton gapes. “How could you kno-” but Jefferson cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Oh please Alexander, I can hear the furious scratching of your quill from the other end of the house. And I also know it’s not letters to your poor wife that you're writing in the early hours of the morning.” he says in clipped tone, finishing off his glass.

Hamilton’s brows crease. “I’m working on my plan, since you’re so curious about my night time activities. I’ll make it so perfect that no one, not even you can oppose it”

Jefferson snorts. “Hamilton, your words could be passed down from God himself and I can still guarantee you, you will never get your votes. Madison won’t allow it.”

“He doesn’t have to allow it, I will get my plan” Alexander states firmly. 

In response Jefferson makes a disinterested sound in the back of his throat and sinks farther into the sofa, stretching out a horribly undignified and distracting way. “Now you have me talking politics, the one thing I specifically said I did not want to discuss tonight, pick a different topic.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” Alexander grumbles. “How a man such as yourself made it into Washington’s Cabinet, I’ll never know.”

Jefferson prop himself up on  an elbow, glaring burning holes into Alexander’s head. “Well at least I gained my position through my own aptitude and hard work, instead of simply riding Washington’s coattails to the top.” he snaps “Daddy’s favorite little soldier.”

Hamilton goes rigid at his words, he can hear blood rushing in his ears. “I am not the one whose coasted into their position! I had to fight tooth and nail, everyday to get where I am. I struggled and studied and stole and bartered to get here, to get all that I have.  _ I  _ was the one who gave me my position, not Washington, not god,  _ me.  _ And you, you come back from France after five years and are gifted Secretary of State in a silver box. You have no right to say I’m the one who rode to the top by the will of others, you have no damn right.” he takes a shuddering breath, ignoring Jefferson’s stunned expression, instead pressing his glass to his lips. However, it’s empty. He glares down at the glass like it too has offended him. He can’t have possible had that much to drink already, could he?

“It would seem I need more drink, especially if I’m forced to stay longer in your presence.” he shoots at Jefferson.

The other man shrugs. “You know where to find the liquor.” he mumbles, tipping his head back against the couch.

Alexander huffs. “Such lovely hosting skills, Jefferson.”

Jefferson sighs. “I didn’t want to host you, so I won’t now.”

Muttering curses under his breath, Hamilton begrudgingly stands and shuffles over the liquor cabinet. His body is heavy with fatigue from sleeping so poorly during his stay. He just wants to finish this drink and head off the bed. Hopefully the alcohol will dampen his senses enough that he’ll pass out when his head hits the pillows. God, he really is exhausted

He fills up his glass ,and as he does, he can hear Jefferson shifting about on the sofa. He rolls his eyes, the dumb fuck, he thinks. Then he turns back to face him and when he does he nearly drops his glass. Jefferson has stretched himself over the whole of the couch, head resting on the armrest, one long leg dangling casually off the edge.

Alexander balks, because the manner in which Jefferson is sprawled is horribly inappropriate, with his legs wide and almost inviting, and because he’s left no room for him to sit back down.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Hamilton spits. “That was my spot!”

Jefferson waves away his comment. “Don’t be petty, there are plenty of other seats in here.”

“But there’s only one sofa” he snaps back.

“Well, I suggest you find a nice, comfortable chair then, cause I’m not moving.” Jefferson drawls.   
Alexander drawing himself to his full height and glares down at Jefferson, who's watching him with disinterest. “I will not sir, move your goddamn legs”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Jefferson retorts.

His fist tightens around the glass so hard that Hamilton’s surprised it doesn't shatter in his palm. “Jefferson I swear, if you don’t move over I’ll -”

“You’ll what exactly?” the virginian asks with a condescending raise of his eyebrow.

Alexander blows hot air out of his mouth. “You leave me no choice then. Just remember that it was you that caused this.” And with that, he sets down his whiskey, and crawls onto the sofa beside Jefferson. 

The man seems to panic as he slots himself against his side, on the sliver of cushion between the edge and Jefferson himself, his legs flail about. 

“Hamilton, what the fuck!” he splutters, trying to inch away from Alexander. But this only makes the cushions dip and causes Alexander to scramble closer to avoid falling to the floor.

“Stop moving so much!” Hamilton shouts, wobbling on the edge, threatening to slip over.

He yelps as cushions shift from beneath him  and instinctively his hand shoots out to grab a fist full of Jefferson’s cravat and Jefferson reaches  out to catch him, tugging Alexander to his chest with an arm thrown haphazardly around his waist. Once he’s firmly positioned on the cushions, tucked into Jefferson’s chest, Hamilton releases the ruffles in his grasp and starts thrashing. 

“Let go of me you gigantic oaf!” he cries, pressing his hands against the other man’s shoulder as he tries to wriggle free, almost slipping off the sofa again.

But Jefferson just tightens his hold on Hamilton’s waist. “If you fall, you're gonna dent my hardwood. Stop fucking squirming!”

Alexander fights a moment longer, unwilling to simply relent to the Virginian’s command, but the arm slung around his back is firm and unyielding, and eventually he’s forced to admit defeat. He lets out a deep seated sigh and begrudgingly slumps against Jefferson’s side with his face, much to his dismay, buried in his chest.

“I hate you” he hisses into the soft folds of the taller man’s velvet jacket. Who the fuck wears purple velvet? Kings, and assholes, that’s who. And in Alexander’s book, the two are one in the same. 

“Don’t blame me that your stubborn ass got you into trouble again.” Jefferson replies dryly. “In fact, you should be thanking me for preventing your inevitable and disgraceful tumble.”

Alexander glares up at the other man, willing whatever forces that be to set that impossibly curly hair ablaze. “I will do no such thing, sir! It’s your stubbornness that lead us here. I will neither thank you or apologize for it was all your fault.”

He expects Jefferson to snap some witty retort back his way, some not so subtle comment on Hamilton’s intelligence, or lack thereof.  It’s how they work, how they’ve come to talk to each other. In more biting remarks or political policies then actual conversation and pleasantries. It’s what Alexander has become accustomed to. That’s why, when a small smile tugs at the corners of Jefferson’s lips and he roll his eyes up towards the ceiling in something similar to amusement, some of his rage and annoyance melt into curiosity. 

Jefferson chuckles, actually fucking chuckles, then sighs. “I dare say we are both too stubborn for our own good, eh?”

All Alexander can do is blink up at him, utterly dumbfounded. Jefferson has a nice smile, he notes, full and blindingly bright, even if it’s just a whisper of one right now. He has to swallow down the thousands of insults loaded and the tip of his tongue, suddenly finding it hard to remember how to breath. “It’s must be a virtue of our positions I suppose.” he stutters

Jefferson bobs his head once in seeming agreement. “Well said, I’m afraid.”

Hamilton can’t help but gawk now. Since when does Thomas ‘holier than thou’ Jefferson ever pay him a compliment. The man has never shown him even the slightest hint of approval before, not once, seeming to live off of degrading him and his idols instead. Alexander feels quite compelled to ask what demon this is and why he wears Jefferson’s face. But perhaps the other way around is more fitting. It could be that whatever devil that has been parading around in Jefferson’s skin has finally released it’s hold and allowed the true man to surface. 

Alexander finds both scenarios equally terrifying, because whatever persona this is, it makes him sincerely uneasy. 

They lay there in total silence for a long while, Alexander pointedly not focusing on the steady rhythm of Jefferson’s breathing or the heat radiating out from his side, seeping into Hamilton and making his whole left arm buzz faintly. That would be ridiculous. However, the candle swaying softly on the nearby end table is not helping with this endeavor. He does wish there was some sort of sound though because he swears he can hear the faint “ _ badum badum”  _ of the other man’s beating heart and he’d like cover that up, so he doesn’t have to think about how close they are. But of course, the thick black night that’s fallen outside the house has choked out any and all noise. 

“It’s so damn quiet around here at night.” Jefferson muses. 

“Far too quiet for my liking.” Hamilton grumbles in response, and the man beside him chuckles, the sound reverberating in his chest. 

“I should have figured the stillness of the country would be off putting to you.” Jefferson retorts. “You seem like the type, who needs the constant noise and milling crowds.” then he shakes his head. “I can’t stand it. Cities. Too many people, too much going on, everything moving all the time, it’s - disquieting. But still, it can be difficult to sleep in a big empty house.”

Alexander peers questioningly up at him. “What of your daughters? I was under the impression that you had three young girls”

“Staying up in the city with their matron. My girls hate events like this so I sent them on a vacation of sorts.” is Jefferson response. “It’s good for them to see things outside the rolling fields of Monticello. But the house does feel colder without the distant sound of piano.” 

Hamilton studies his expression, which is distant and thoughtful. He knows little of Jefferson’s personal life, only that his wife died a few years back, leaving him a widower with three young daughters. The way he talks about his empty home is somber, like the quiet crushes in on him and leaves him with nowhere to turn. Alexander can’t imagine what that would be like, with no wife and no kids around. His house is always full of noise. Of the children’s shrieks and laughter echoing through the halls, the shouts of people in the streets below, of the gentle hum of Eliza playing piano in the parlor, the heavy, awkward cluck of the keys as his eldest tries to play the right hand part. Even in the dead of night, when the rest have gone to bed and he’s still up, because inspiration strikes at the oddest moments, the house still feels alive. Because occasionally his little Angelica comes wandering into his study and crawling into his lap, watching his quill move until she falls back asleep and he returns his daughter to her bed, or maybe his wife poking her head in, hardly awake, and begging him to come and sleep (he often finds it hard to refuse her). There is always movement in the Hamilton house, never is there a moment of stillness, quite the opposite of Monticello. The very air of the sprawling mansion feels stale and dusty, it can’t be easy to live like this. Maybe that’s why Jefferson tried so hard to get Madison to stay, to provide him some sort of distraction from his isolation.

“You know.” Jefferson begins in a slow, deep voice, and Alexander berates himself for the choice in adjective but he turns his attention up towards him regardless. The other man has his gaze cast out somewhere down by his shoes, an odd crease in his brow that Hamilton can’t quite place, and he’s trembling ever so slightly “I’ve often wondered what your lips might feel like on my own.”

The words cause Alexander’s insides to fold in on themselves. He actually chokes on his saliva as it thickens in his mouth, which has somehow also gone dry. He gazes incredulously up at his companion.

“Are you drunk!?” he splutters, surprised that anything resembling words came out at all. 

Jefferson shrugs. “Not nearly enough I fear.”

Hamilton’s glare hardens. “Well, mister Jefferson, I’m afraid you’ll never know the feel of it, because I’d sooner kiss Charles Lee’s rear then ever kiss you.”

“Is that so?” Jefferson asks snidely, dropping his piercing gaze down to Hamilton.

Alexander puffs up his chest. “Yes, it is, I’d never taint my mouth with your wretched taste.” he snaps.

Jefferson’s brow creases deeply and he goes back to glowering at his perfectly shined shoes “Fine then Alexander, forget that I said anything at all.”

Hamilton desperately wants to feel indignant towards the man beside him, but he just can’t bring himself to do so, all he can muster is faint annoyance. The disdain should come easily to him, seeing how much he despises Jefferson. He bites down on his lip, eyes raking over the southerners tightly scrunched profile. Does he despise Jefferson? He should, the man is a horrid, arrogant, self righteous plantation owner whose plans for strong state government would tear the nation apart before they’ve even started building, but he’s not evil. Hate, real hate is actually rather rare to come by. Even Alexander himself, a man with such an intense, unforgiving personality, can’t say that he truly hates many people. He supposes he hates his father, but the pain of his abandonment has faded over the years into not much more than a dull throb now. He hates Charles Lee and his band of disloyal, loud mouthed cronies,  but even then, that was years ago and that hatred burns with the anger of a far younger man. He hates the ideas of the Democratic- Republican party, and their deep seated desire to apparently pull the country apart, but he can’t say that he hates Madison, and, for all their bickering, Alexander can’t say that he hates Jefferson either. Differing opinions do not unconditional hate make. Does he find Jefferson and his ramblings annoying? Yes, constantly, the man is insufferable. But he’s also brilliant. When Hamilton had read the declaration he’d penned for their independence he’d never felt such overwhelming pride in the nation they we’re setting out to build. He remembers desperately wanting to meet the author of such an inspiring work, can recall the way his palms had sweat and his chest swelled with excitement on the day he was suppose to return, and how that excitement immediately solidified into ice when a jackass clad in magenta and gold came flouncing through the door, wicked little grin on his face. But that man is so much different than the one he lies beside right now, with one arm curled around the small of his back. The one who’d shared just a little of himself tonight, be that good or bad. The man who, though he appears to be trying to burn holes through the tops of his feet, looks oddly vulnerable. 

He sweeps his gaze over Jefferson’s lips, full and lovely like flower petals in late summer. Certainly, if they did kiss it wouldn’t be an unpleasant experience, Jefferson is beautiful and Hamilton has not kissed a man since his time as a simple foot soldier ended. 

His teeth tear into his  lower lip until it aches as he brings his eyes back up to Jefferson’s. “Just one kiss would be sufficient, yes?”

The other man’s head snaps in his direction, dark eyes clashing with dark eyes uncertainly. 

Then he nods. “Just a kiss” he agrees “Just enough to sate the curiosity.”

He shifts so he can face Alexander better and Alexander follows his lead, turning onto his side so they face each other head on. Jefferson is staring at him with some newfound lightness to his expression, as if he’s just noticed something  new and fascinating in Hamilton’s face but can’t quite put his finger on it, like when one tries to decipher the meaning hidden between the brushstrokes of a painting. Alexander swallows, almost feeling small under the intensity of the look.

His hand comes up to rest on the curve of Jefferson’s shoulder. “And you won’t tell a soul about this, will you? I’d rather not hang at your side for-.”

“Do I look as though I have a death wish?” Jefferson snaps, but his arm tightens around Hamilton’s middle.

Alexander lets out a shaky sigh. “Alright then...”

Tentatively, he leans up and presses his lips to Thomas’.. They’re warm, as soft and full as he’d thought they might be, and let's be honest, he’d definitely thought about them before. He’d only meant for the action to be chaste, a faint brush of fine skin on skin to put the question to rest once and for all. But then Jefferson goes and makes this soft, needy sound in the back of his throat and clutches Alexander’s back almost possessively, and really what is he to do with that other than part his lips and slide his tongue carefully over the seam of Jefferson’s. Thomas whines in response, pushes back against Alexander’s roaming muscle and gently tugs him into his lap. Hamilton is more then happy to oblige with this particular request, too caught up in the sensation of Jefferson sucking at his lower lip to notice. He doesn’t realise any time  has past until his lungs start to burn and they’re forced to pull apart, but not before Thomas can nip sharply at his retreating lips. The separation hardly last a second, before Alexander is diving back in. He presses his lips fervently to Thomas’ and sparks shoot up his spine, making everything wonderful and pushing away the crushing darkness that lay long forgotten past the windows. The brilliant little sparks however, reignited the flame of thought in his mind and Hamilton’s eyes immediately go wide at the realization of what's happening. This is far more than a simple kiss born of curiosity. He wrenches himself back, surprised to say the least when it appears that Jefferson is chasing after his mouth. Thankfully, he does not recapture it and Alexander takes a moment to steady his breathing as well as assess the predicament he now finds himself in.

He’s somehow managed to make his way onto Jefferson’s lap, practically straddling the man, with his hands curled tightly into the soft, springy curls at the base of his neck. Jefferson’s hands grip at his waist, much higher than Alexander would have thought, seeing how passionately they were kissing, one clutches at the small of his back, the other grasps at his midsection in a manner that could almost be call protective or possessive. They’re both breathing hard and Hamilton is sure they’re both equally flushed. 

He peers down awkwardly at Jefferson, slowly dropping his fingers from his hair. “So, that was-”

Beneath him, Jefferson begins to squirm, pushing Alexander until he slips from his lap and, subsequently, goes tumbling to the floor. He cracks his ass quite fantastically on the hardwood.

“What the hell?!” he cries, glaring up at the virginian.   
Jefferson ignores his question, instead, he gingerly rises from the sofa and offers Alexander a hand. “Come on, I’ll escort you to your room.” his voice is tight.

Alexander takes it hesitantly, almost instantly feeling warmed as the smoothness of Jefferson’s palm slots against his own, and he allows the other man to haul him to his feet with surprising ease. The moment he’s upright though, the warmth falls away and Jefferson turns. 

“Let’s go.” is his only, short, comment before he’s clipping his way out of the parlor.

Hamilton trugs after him, to tired to keep pace and to confused to want to catch up. 

Despite the fatigue, his mind is racing. It appears that Jefferson isn’t planning on talking about the kiss, but god, that kiss. It seems too good to be true, hardly real even though  Alexander’s  lips still burn slightly from the contact. And although he can still feel the phantom pressure Jefferson’s mouth on his own, he’s not convinced that what just happened was real. It doesn't seem like it should be real. That he, Alexander Hamilton, the short tempered, loud, invasive treasury secretary, would kiss Thomas Jefferson,  his greatest political enemy with such vigour. He ghosted his fingertips carefully over his lips a pathetic attempt to recreate the feeling as they start to climb the stairs.  And with what vigor it was, that sound Thomas had made, that almost soft whimper, what the hell was that about? Did it mean something? Could there perhaps, be something more, a deeper significance behind what just happened? Hamilton’s not sure, mind too addled with possibilities to possibly come to a concussion. All he knows right now, is that he desperately wants to kiss Jefferson again, to be sure that it wasn’t some fluke, or that he’d imagined the whole thing. He needs to feel them just once more, because the tingling sensation is already starting to leave his lips and he’s not quite ready to lose it. 

“Hamilton, what the hell are you doing?” Jefferson snaps, and Alexander jumps back to reality. 

They’ve reached the landing, Jefferson is already halfway down the hall, staring hard at him as he hovers at the top of the stairs, lost in thought. 

Hamilton blinks, unsure what to say, so he just continues to stare dazedly at the virginian. 

Jefferson sighs, begrudgingly making his way back down the hall, back towards Alexander. “Did you have a stroke? Why are you just standing there with that empty look on your face?” he stops not even a foot away, far closer then he has any right to be, one more step and he’d be treading on Alexander's toes.

And still, all Hamilton can do is stare  up at him, gaze sliding over his dark, confused eyes, the slope of his cheeks- 

“My god, Alexander are you even listening to me?”

\- Across the sharp curve of his jaw, and  unfairly well kept beard-

Thomas sighs. “You never listen to me so I suppose that question was pointless.”

\- Back down to those lips, full and pink and so very very warm and wonderful.

“Have you been struck dumb, man? Have you lost your ability to spea-!”

Jefferson does not get a chance to finish that sentence however, because at this point, Alexander has surge forward to smash their mouths together once more. 

If the pervious kiss had been vigorous, this one is volatile.

Alexander knows exactly what he wants and he wastes no time in claim Thomas’ lips for himself. His hands skirt over Jefferson’s shoulder, down his arm, across his stomach, until they finally  find their way beneath his ridiculous coat. He slides them across the muscles hidden just below the thin fabric of his shirt and presses his thumbs to his biceps, somewhere between light groping and actively trying to strip Jefferson of his jacket. Startled by the unprovoked attack,Thomas stumbles back a few paces, only Hamilton’s firm grip on his shoulders holding him in place. Again, he makes that soft, desperate sound and it only spurs Alexander on, pushing him back until he collides with a wall.  A muffled gasp slips from Jefferson’s  lips as his back is pressed to it, hands falling to Alexander waist. 

 

In this moment, pinning Thomas to the wall, Hamilton simply forgets anything outside the reality of the sharp tang of whiskey on the other man’s tongue. He forgets about the madding quite of Monticello,  the thick night that threatens to consume them in this near pitch black hallway. He lets the pointless, irrelevant squabbling they’ve done slip away until it’s only him and Thomas, kissing breathlessly, ceaselessly in the dark. And Alexander doesn’t feel the oppressiveness of the night anymore, he doesn’t feel it suffocating him. With his eyes closed and Jefferson’s mouth yielding to his own, he can no longer see the creeping shadows. Everything is bright and warm and safe now, with the Virginan’s hands grasping at his hips, not dragging him closer, but holding him tight, like a lifeline. So Alexander takes the initiative, threads his fingers into Jefferson’s fucking amazing curls and angles his head the way he wants it, tilts it down so he can ravage it better.

Often times, after being totally immersed in his work for hours, Hamilton doesn’t realises he’s hungry until he eats, then he’s famishes. He feels this situation parallels that one quite fantastically. He hadn’t know how starved he was for Thomas until he had the first taste, and now Alexander is drinking him in like he’s the last clean spring on earth, no intention of stopping in his mind. He just dwells on the heat of Jefferson’s body slotted against his own, of the scrape of their stubbled chins, a feeling that shoots through Hamilton with the most sinful of intentions. He moans hotly into his enemy’s mouth and feels him shiver beneath him, against hands that are ever so slowly creeping down his stomach to fiddle with the button of his breeches. 

That’s when Thomas’ hands close around his wrists. He pulls his lips from Hamilton’s and presses their foreheads together. Wild ringlets of incredible ebony hair fall around his face. They tickle Hamilton’s cheeks. 

“Alexander, what is this?” Jefferson asks, breathless, eyes burning deeply into him. 

Alexander blinks up at him, perplexed by the question. His skin is smoldering where Thomas’ long fingers encircled his wrists, hovering a hairsbreadth from his waist. 

“It’s whatever you need it to be.” he responds, suddenly feeling the need to whisper. Because, without Thomas’ lips on his own, he can once again feel the dark impressing itself upon them. The space between Jefferson and himself is like a little pocket of light in the otherwise impenetrable night, warm and glowing dimly. 

Jefferson regards him for a moment, and Alexander hardly dares to breath, fingers fidgeting restlessly, because he can never be still, not even for moment. 

“Then it’s just a kiss for now.” Thomas finally states, his own voice hushed, a rolling baritone that makes Hamilton tremble in his grasp. “There’s no need for things to advance past this point, tonight”

Alexander nods. “Just a kiss then.”

But, even though they have reached this agreement, neither party seems inclined to move.

Thomas is still staring at Hamilton, as if mesmerized. “The best of things come with time, I’ve found.”

“For the first time ever, I feel compelled to agree with you.” Alexander responses lightly. He’s lying, of course, it’s taking everything in him not to lean up and reclaim Thomas’ mouth, which is so tantalizingly close. He restrains himself however, because Thomas doesn’t want to push things too far, at least, not right now, not this night. Right now, it’s enough to just be here, to feel his chest swelling like it might burst as he gazes at Thomas in this moment of serenity. 

Then a shudder of fatigue ripples through his body, and Alexander lets out the biggest, loudest yawns there has ever been. Red hot embarrassment creeps up his neck, and Jefferson smiles. Not a wicked, teasing smirk, or a condescending grin, he looks down at Alexander fondly, smiling a warm, tender smile that sets his whole face a light. 

“I believe you could use a bed right about now” he murmurs, letting Hamilton’s wrists drop

Alexander huffs “Am I a child? Do I look like I need you to mother me?”

Jefferson’s grin only widens “Well your stature does make it bit hard to tell sometimes.” then he slips around him and starts off down the hall once more. 

“Asshole” Alexander mutters under his breath, following in tow beside him.

Apparently Thomas hears him though, because he sighs. Then, he threads his fingers into his. 

All Hamilton can do is stare down at their joined hands, utterly perplexed by how easily Jefferson has locked them together, like it’s an unconscious decision, as simple as breathing,. When did it become so natural, and why doesn’t he want to pull away? He feels content, not an emotion he would have ever thought he’d associate with Jefferson, but it's true, the contact brings him comfort. He lets the other man lead him down the hall, reveling in the pleasantly suffocating feeling in his chest that it creates, holding hands like young courters do.  But with each step they take Alexander feels more and more hesitant to continue forward. Because once they reach his room, Jefferson’s going to let go of his hand, he’s going to leave Alexander, all alone in the still, stifling night. He finds himself dragging his feet, trying to draw out their time together just  a little bit longer, but all too quickly does Thomas stop. Hesitantly he drops his hand from Alexander’s, his fingers lingering longer than they necessarily need to but Hamilton doesn’t complain at the way his fingertips ghost over his wrist. 

Hamilton takes this as his cue to move from Jefferson side, but after he opens the door to his room he hovers, standing in the opening with his back to the frame,. Thomas is watching him, eyes soft at the edges, and for a moment, Alexander thinks that he might change his mind, sweep him up in his arms and lead him back the way they came, to the master bedroom, or even just shove Alexander into this room, shut the door with snap and curl up with him in the bed. Honestly, Alexander might prefer that to sex as he simply craves the intimacy of touch tonight. But Jefferson holds his ground, he doesn’t bear down on him and carry him off. Instead he makes to speak, mouth parting in preparation, but Hamilton beats him to it. 

He gazes up at Thomas through his lashes. “Might I make a request, sir?” he asks carefully.

Jefferson’s brows draw together. “That depends, what is it?”

“Well its just-” Alexander begins, stumbling over his words. He’s never been tongue tied like this. “I feel that, after all that’s transpired tonight, that, um, that a goodnight kiss- may be in order....” he peeters off lamely.

Jefferson looks, a little shocked at the request, eyebrows creeping up into his hairline. But then he smiles, that breathtaking smile, that new, kinder smile that makes Hamilton’s heart race, and he inches forward until the tips of their polished shoes knock together. 

“ _ Just _ a kiss goodnight?” he says sweetly, laying a hand on Alexander’s hip tentatively. 

“Yes” he breaths in response, hardly daring to speak above a whisper again. “Just a kiss good night, just something to get me through until the morning.”

Thomas hums gently. “I suppose I can  give you that much.”

And now it’s Hamilton’s turn to smile, he bring his  hands up, one resting on his waist, the other moving up to embed itself in his hair. But its Jefferson this time who takes the initiative before he gets that chance.

Thomas surges forward with speed, slamming his lips to Hamilton’s, as he pins him to the doorframe with a big hands on both hips. Shocked, Alexander aches up into his companion, letting a muffled whimper fall from his mouth, which Jefferson devours hungrily. His hand flies up clutching at the wood above his head, back bowing and face flushing as the wetness of Thomas’ tongue infiltrates his mouth, but it’s not like it was a hard fought battle. Fingers drag though Alexander's hair, they caress over his cheeks and and across his stubbled jawline as he and Thomas kiss and kiss and kiss, the air between them thick and nearly unbreathable. 

Then Thomas pulls back, lets him slump back down against the door frame, and grins sheepishly at him. It’s seems no matter what the interaction between them is, it will always be fierce and fiery. 

Jefferson traces his fingers across Hamilton’s lips, studying their path across the swollen skin there. “All I will be able to think about tonight is you, I fear.” he murmurs and Alexander shivers under his touch.

“Likewise” he mutters “Somehow, I feel I will sleep well tonight, with thoughts of you to keep me company.” he rests his head back against the door frame. 

Thomas just chuckles. “Good” he whispers, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Hamilton’s temple. “Good night, Alexander.”

He moves into the slight contact, letting out a sigh. “Good night, Thomas.”


End file.
